


look up

by younglegends



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/younglegends/pseuds/younglegends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mei Chang bends down to the earth, toes the state line with her shoe. Eyes the sky speculatively. </p><p>“Rain soon,” she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look up

**Author's Note:**

> post-series modern au. brief snapshots, really. pretty dang unbalanced and incoherent and rough but the most complete it'll ever be, and what i needed to get out.

Mei Chang bends down to the earth, toes the state line with her shoe. Eyes the sky speculatively.

“Rain soon,” she says.

Behind her, a car door slams, and a figure joins her at her side. “Doesn’t look like it,” says Lan Fan. Her posture is wary, arms folded across her chest, guarded. There’s a spot of blood under her lip. She hasn’t had time to come back down into herself yet. Mei understands why.

Mei looks back out over the road, long and sweeping down the hills of dry desert. At the sun hanging hot and heavy in the sky, and at Lan Fan’s shadow, stretching tall beside her. Then she shrugs. “Rain soon,” she repeats petulantly.

Rain soon, because she can feel it in the air, hot and humid and ready to burst, and in the earth, dry and sore and cracked beneath her palm, and in all of them, bodies tensed and fraught with nerves, pent-up energy from the war. The lull of the trip back is still foreign, unfamiliar, as though some remnant of fear should still be about to leap out at them, as though it isn’t over. In a way, it isn’t. Lan Fan rides in the back next to the covered body of her grandfather, and doesn’t sleep, because of the dreams. Mei knows; she has them too. And then there’s Ling, their future ruler, boy with tired eyes who talks to himself and doesn’t even notice. All of them chafing against each other in the rugged emptiness of the cramped car, the desert skyline. Something has to give.

On her shoulder, Xiao Mei whines loudly in hunger, and Mei reaches up, scratches her under her chin. “Don’t worry,” she says, throat tight. “We’ll be home soon, and then I’ll feed you all the buns I can get my hands on.”

“Save them for yourself, girl,” says Lan Fan. Even her voice sounds heavy. But when Mei turns to look at her, it’s with surprise, because of the quirk of the other girl’s mouth, twisted up into something almost like a smile. A small one, but still there.

“Home, huh,” says Lan Fan, and her eyes are impossibly bright, much too bright for the blood and grime still stuck in her skin, for the barren sprawl of rock and sand and silence that lies before them, for the impending storm. She almost hums in thought. “Home, soon.”

Mei knows exactly what she means.

“Let’s go,” she says, and stands, limbs light under the glow of the morning sun.

\--

There’s an itch under his skin that just won’t burn out. Or maybe it’s just the prickling silence in his head, nothing but an immense emptiness, echoes. _He left you, you know,_ thinks Ling, but he also left a whole lot of shit behind, the bastard couldn’t even take a clean leave, couldn’t even –

He’s talking to himself again. He can tell, the way Lan Fan glances at him in the rearview mirror, almost too quickly to be caught, but he’s grown up around her, with her, has long since learned how to see her. He has to stop this, at any rate. When they get home, back to Xing, he’s going to be emperor, and he’s going to be in charge of a whole country. A country _he_ had never stepped foot into, though Ling always talked of it, so much that he got sick of it – _yeah, yeah, the great wide land of the strong and the brave, but c’mon, what really matters is how good the food is, you’d better not have been making that up –_

He raises a hand to his forehead, shades his eyes from the sun. Tightens his grip on the steering wheel as they speed down the highway for home. Bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

“I thought you said it was going to rain soon,” says Lan Fan from the back. Quietly.

Beside him, Mei whips around in the passenger seat, braids flying into his face. Ling yelps as the two of them start arguing about wind and rain and _qi_ flow, narrowly avoids driving the car off the road. His fingers are burning on the edge of the wheel, pulse tight, head pounding. _And who was it,_ says that infernal voice in the back of his mind, _who taught you how to drive?_

– that infernal voice that won’t die –

He’s dead.

Ling Yao rolls down the window, lets the rushing air into the car. Lets himself breathe. That’s right, he thinks, and it almost sounds like his own voice now, that’s right. He died, and that’s the last of his neat little tricks to show you. Death, heavy in his bones, in the backseat of their car, in the air. Well, he was never really impressed with this kid, this human, or so he said, but Ling has something of his own to show, now. Something better. He thinks of what he’s taking back to his country – a small red stone in his pocket, offering the weight of the future. A body covered in white in the back – but more than that; the soul of a fiercely brave warrior ready for rest at last. Two young women who’ve been through a war, and yet are still fighting, even if just for the pleasure of a simple meaningless argument, about the weather, about the world. And himself. This body, battered but alive. A life. Life. Life. Life.

His country is waiting for him, and he’s going to live to lead them, to see that they do too.

He can hear his laugh in his mind – _you’re right, kid, that’s a neat trick, far better than anything I could teach you, don’t you think?_ But when he looks into the rearview mirror he meets his own gaze, no one else’s.

But that’s not entirely true, either. Lan Fan, still as shadow, strong as the blade she wields. Mei Chang, head cocked to the side, watching him. All waiting for him. For their king.

“Would you look at that,” says Ling, voice remarkably steady. “It’s starting to rain.”

\--

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. As long as he may live, he’ll never get used to this, as he looks left, then right, crossing the street. Overhead, the clouds are heavy, full; pockmarked streets anticipating puddles, ready for the storm. When the first drops begin to fall Alphonse raises his umbrella, cuts open the sky with the sweep of his arm. Walks down the road past buildings, shops, streetlights tall as trees. The crisp splash of puddles underfoot; the scratch of his collared shirt against his neck. The wind curling through his coat. All around, the air thick with pressure, waiting to let go.

And the day is impossibly bright, light filtering through the cracks in the clouds, even as the rain comes down, and it makes him remember, the glint of sun along the lines of armor, the glow of a shard red as blood cradled within his glove, the bleak white of truth where his body waited, where this body waited, where he waited. But this, he thinks, raising his palm to the sky, watching the sun through his outstretched fingers – this is better. This is real.

A little ways down the road there’s a middle-aged man trying to dash down the street with a folded-up newspaper held over his head. Alphonse waits until he catches up, then extends his arm. Offers, “Here, why don’t you take this.”

“Are you sure?” the man says in surprise, but Alphonse is already pressing the umbrella into his hand. A smile, a wave, and he’s off, running through the streets, crashing through puddles and rain seeping into his skin, his hair, heart in his throat and thudding to match every step, and his jumbled breath, all of it so loud, and –

And he shouldn’t be doing this kind of thing anymore, he isn’t invulnerable anymore, his brother always reminds him, snaps at him when he goes out without a coat and returns runny-nosed and sniffling, who do you think you are, fuckin’ Superman? Take care of yourself. And maybe it’s the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, that Alphonse always stills the reply ready on his tongue, reaches to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly instead, _sorry, brother, can’t help it._ And he can’t. But he thinks maybe his brother understands.

The sun is setting soon, and the rain is getting harder. Alphonse opens his mouth, tastes sky. Curls his lip up into a smile. And he still won’t ever get used to it, he thinks, long as he lives. Long as he may live – and what a thought that is. Long as he may live. He laughs, heads for home.

\--

The reporters’ questions are still ringing in his ears when he climbs into the back of the car, the bright flashes of bulbs spotting his vision, though it had been supposed to be a camera-free event. “You’ll fuck up your sight even more like this,” Knox had said. “And it would be stupid to compromise your right to the role even further. So don’t fuck it up.” “Wow,” Havoc had said, impressed. “That’s a lot of cussing.” “Don’t you have some physical therapy exercises to do,” Roy had said, and that had been the end of that. Still, though, the reporters had showed up, with their cameras and their screens and their questions, and maybe Roy had wanted it that way. Standing there on that podium, lights in his eyes, it had truly felt like he was facing a whole nation. Everything laid out bare, for all to see; nothing to hide, not anymore. That reign of secrecy was over. It’s time for a new era. The weight doesn’t escape him now – in fact, he welcomes it.

Then suddenly the car screeches to a halt on the way back to headquarters, slamming Roy forward, forehead thunking painfully against the heavy glass of the window. Instantly he’s moving, straightening up to shout, “What’s the problem,” hands starting to clench into fists, braced for battle –

A hand on his shoulder, stilling him. He recognizes its weight. “Relax, sir,” Hawkeye says dryly, voice laced with amusement. “Looks like someone’s here to visit.”

The car door opens, a blast of cold morning air hitting his face. A voice – “Hey there, hotshot, look who’s made it big,” a vague unformed shape, blurry. Red and gold. Roy lowers his fist.

“Is that how you always greet people,” he says, irritated, “by jumping in front of their vehicles?”

“Well, it’s considerably harder now to get you alone, now that you’ve finally gone and done it,” says Fullmetal, and Roy is taken aback, just a little, by his tone. It’s not aggressive, or grudging, or even surprised. It’s something lighter than that, though not soft. Hardened with purpose. Expectant. “Congratulations on the promotion, Fuhrer. Got five minutes to spare for a chat?”

It’s a cold day, windy, on the edge of spring. The morning is strangely calm, thick clouds and empty streets prophesying rain. They find themselves in a nearby town plaza, close to a lake, with only a few milling bystanders and various fast food stands. Roy leans his head back, closes his eyes, clears his throat. He hasn’t had time to come out like this in a while. Rebuilding a country from the ground up takes time and work, though it’s not like he wasn’t ready for it. Still, he thinks, it’s nice, to find himself in a moment of quiet, wind ruffling his hair. Something almost like peace. But that, he knows, is a bigger task.

“Hey,” comes the voice from behind him, and Roy stops. “You’ve gotten a lot less talkative over the years, huh.”

Roy hums in response. It’s really been that long, has it.

“Would never have guessed you’d finally grown sick of the sound of your own voice, what with all your cheesy speeches on television,” says Fullmetal, and there’s the snicker in his tone.

Roy sighs, weary and long-suffering. He doesn’t turn around. “We’ve all missed your cynical wit back at the office,” he says. “And your, should I say, _short_ temper.”

Fullmetal goes for it. He always goes for it. Some things, miraculously, don’t change with time. “I’m not even short anymore,” he’s hissing, “that was forever ago, why does nobody get over that, I swear – you don’t see me making blind jokes left and right–” He cuts himself off. “Oh. Wait, I just did.”

Roy’s surprised into a laugh. The atmosphere becomes more familiar after that, settling into jibes and taunts that segue into actual conversation. Alphonse Elric is fine, more than fine, healthy as ever. Winry Rockbell’s officially setting up her own automail service centre in Rush Valley, and they’re due to visit her soon, in time for its opening. Fullmetal does most of the talking, and Roy, for once, is content to just listen. If his security detail could see him now, though, in the open, they’d have a heart attack. But Hawkeye had let him go. She always knows what he needs, and for that, he’s grateful.

“Are you falling asleep over there? Damn, Mustang, didn’t think you were getting _that_ old. Hey, hold on a sec, our time’s almost up.”

Fullmetal’s gone, and for a second Roy’s about to follow his voice, but he stops himself. Waits instead. A minute later and the boy’s back, something in his hands that smells suspiciously like –

“A hot dog,” says Roy, amazed. “You bought me a hot dog.”

“A 520 cens hot dog,” says Fullmetal – no, Edward. He’s not a state alchemist anymore, hasn’t been one for a long time. He’s not a boy anymore, either. “I owed you, didn’t I?”

It strikes Roy then that he would like to see the look on Ed’s face, right now. He would like to see a lot of things. The crowd of people in the audience at his inauguration ceremony; each and every one of their faces. The blinding slant of Havoc’s toothed grin when he clamps down on a cigarette, blows smoke into Roy’s face. The eyes Elicia Hughes shares with her father. The shape Riza Hawkeye’s shadow makes at his shoulder. The way the sky looks just before a storm, bright and terrifyingly clear.

“I’m not so sure about that,” says Roy, but he takes the hot dog anyway.

He can feel Ed’s shrug. “Well, screw equivalent exchange, right?” Roy thinks he might be smiling. He can’t be sure, so instead he takes a big bite of his hot dog.

“Imagine the headlines tomorrow,” Ed says. “‘Mustang’s First Act As Fuhrer: Decimates Hot Dog.’ Or, no, get this – ‘Fuhrer Mustard.’” He barks out a laugh, impossibly young. “Not that I’ll ever be caught dead calling you Fuhrer, you hear me?”

“You already did,” says Roy, “back at the car.”

“I did no such thing,” says Ed, “and you can’t prove otherwise.”

They part with the knowledge that they won’t be seeing each other again for a while. There’s work to do. The driver is waiting, Hawkeye is waiting, everyone is waiting. Roy can taste the rain in the air.

“Just one thing,” says Ed, and Roy can hear the grin in his voice now, “I need some change. For the bus fare home. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back. You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?”

In the car, he can feel the weight of Hawkeye’s gaze, as the driver starts the ignition, pulls out from the curb. He waits for her to say it – _he’s grown, hasn’t he,_ or _we all have, too,_ or _we made it, sir, we really did._

“You have ketchup on your chin,” says General Riza Hawkeye, and Roy laughs as the car speeds into the storm.

\--

Edward Elric is sprawled on a couch at 3 AM watching the muted television set splay fuzzy shapes and colours over the walls, bright lights, neon. There’s a funny itch in his arm, phantom pain in his shoulder, the juncture between skin and what was once steel. Rain soon. He raises his hands, watches the shadow they cast over his face, claps them together. A magic trick.

“Brother,” says Alphonse Elric, and that’s all he says, and then he sits down on the couch next to him. The cat bounds up into Al’s lap, and that’s just typical, thinks Edward, fuckin’ cat. He bares his teeth at it and it growls back. They lie there for a while in silence. Curtains pulled back on the windows, revealing empty night.

“Hey,” says Ed, eventually, finally, when the light’s coming up and he can start to see the darkness outside distinguish itself into shapes, carved by sun, the quiet creeping of the dawn. The tops of the trees. The shape of the street. Row upon row of little houses, waking up. “Good morning, Al.”

“Yeah,” says his brother, something reverent in his tone. “It really is.”


End file.
